


Kintsugi

by virmillion



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-08-20 00:37:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16545428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virmillion/pseuds/virmillion
Summary: Virgil is just about fed up with this fancy little school, so he takes advantage of a quiet night outside. Difficulties ensue. // this will eventually be chaptered if i remember to come back to it, but it's marked as one chapter because otherwise it's in the wrong spot on the timeline which makes me Not Happy





	Kintsugi

Hands in his hair, scalding water beating against his back, Virgil hesitates. For how cold it gets in these dorms, would it really be so terrible to just let his fingers burn? Just a little bit?

In the end he decides that yes, that probably would be detrimental to his academic success, and finishes scrubbing the foamy bubbles into his scalp. The cheap kool-aid he used to dye his dark hair purple stains his fingers as he lowers his hands to deal with the body soap. It looks almost as if he’d torn into a bubbling cauldron of the souls of the damned, the way his protruding veins pull the dye down further. The thin lines of blue slithering down his wrists provide a stark contrast to his impossibly pale skin, normally covered by a hoodie— _ maybe _ a long sleeved t shirt, if it’s really that hot out. It’s not normally that hot out.

Speaking of ‘not that hot,’ a grimace tugs at his lips at he wrenches the knob to stop the pounding water. A freezing chill of dorm room air collides with his skin as he works quickly to wring out his hair, swipe the extra droplets of water from his arms, and wrap himself in the fluffy green towel his mom had sworn he would need. He hates it so much when she’s right, and as such, she has not been informed of her accuracy regarding the temperature of the room.

Virgil tugs an oversized hoodie on, reveling in the scent of smoke that engulfs him as he pulls up his porcupine-emblazoned pajama pants. While his other roommates had shipped out long ago, complaining of his undying need to ruin his lungs and the rank smells accompanying it, this hoodie actually got that way due to his unending desire to sit two feet from a campfire. He’s always loved watching the flames dance in the night sky, the bugs darting to their demise in the orange flickers, and if the lingering smokiness got him a private room, well, that’s just an added bonus.

Moving soundlessly through his utterly trashed room, Virgil ignores the complete absence of light—who needs ceiling lights when your eyes can adjust?—and curls up under his pile of blankets. One with constellations, one a rich mauve, one littered with cartoon cats, and one that, quite frankly, he might have accidentally stolen when his roommates moved out. Maybe. An uncertainty like that wouldn’t hold up in a court of law, though, so he merely shrugs and draws the space blanket up to cover his ears, pulling out his phone to scroll through time wasting apps. As the clock ticks closer to midnight, his eyelids grow heavy, but no, he can’t sleep, not yet. He has stuff to get done tonight, there’s no time for sleeping.

Ha. Right. As if he’d actually sleep of his own volition. As if he were actually capable of willing himself to fall asleep, to exit consciousness in mere moments, instead of lying awake for hours on end, staring at the ceiling, wishing he could go home, and knowing that’s not really an option.

Midnight. Time to move.

Virgil snatches his messenger bag—the one decorated with stars and planets and moons—and slips through his door, patting his key to assure himself he can get back in. Down the dark halls he pads, bypassing the elevator in favor of the cracked window at the end of the corridor. Always open, one might expect someone to break in through there, but given its position on the sixth floor of a secluded dorm building, that’s pretty unlikely.

He hefts it up just enough to squeeze himself through, relishing in the cool sting of the night air against his face. A welcome change from the pure ice permeating his room, but no one asked him, so he supposes that doesn’t really matter.

A bird chirps irritably as he pushes himself off the windowsill to land on its tree, ignoring the scraping of the bark against his bare hands. The skin doesn’t break as he latches his fingers around the trunk, squinting into the night to see if anyone noticed. Judging by the utter boredom on the faces of the people monitoring the front door, he’s good to go. He pulls his body in closer to the densest chunks of foliage, just in case, as he carefully lowers himself to the ground. Branch by branch, the stars get further and the dirt gets closer.

The sound of his sneakers crunching on a fallen twig, usually an imperceptible sound in the activity of the day, deafens his ears as if someone had fired a cannon in the silence of the night. Through sheer luck or willful ignorance or just plain lack of observational skills, the guards don’t notice.

Virgil skitters over to the wall of the building, tearing at the inside of his cheek with his teeth to keep his teeth from chattering. When his cheek turns raw and ragged, he switches to pulling off the bits of dead skin on his lip.

The ruddy red bricks appear almost mud-stained, caked in dirt the lower he crouches, crawling along in the rose bushes to the far end of the building. His bag scrapes over the thorns, undoubtedly getting riddled with rips and holes on the way, but that doesn’t really matter—nothing in there is small enough to slip out, so it should be fine.

Peering around the corner, the coast looks perfectly clear—just the dumpsters and a fire exit, and no people. With a constant ear turned up for any hint of danger, he flips open his bag and digs around in it, letting the corner of his lip curl up when his fingers alight on what he’s looking for.

Virgil checks left, right, and left again before flicking his wrist to spark the match, watching the flame eat the stick and consume more air, trying in desperation to reach his fingers. Before it has the chance, he lights the candle waiting on the ground, watching the wick curl and pop as the new pieces of thread snap off from the heat.

He licks his fingers and pinches the match to snuff it out, shaking his hand to knock off the stray ashes before they can actually do anything more than warm him up a little. Grinding them under his combat boots, Virgil cups his hands over the candle fighting to stay bright, protecting it from the wind—and any curious onlookers, but that’s besides the point.

Yes, truly, who could have seen this coming? The vagrant known far and wide for smoking, for cursing, for pulling dangerous stunts, is actually the one sneaking out at night to revel in the smell of a fall-scented candle that isn’t allowed in the dorms. Certainly a neat trick to keep it out of sight during room check ins, to say the least.

Virgil allows his mind to wander, back to when he wasn’t alone in his obsession with fire, back to when he didn’t have to sneak around just to smell something that reminds him of home, reminds him of his friends. Well, friend. The only one he had, really, or at least the only one that counted. He bends his head closer to the crackling wick, glancing at his barely-purple hair. He should really get around to coloring it again, when he has a chance. As it stands, it took him weeks to get away long enough to dye it the first time. Boring brown mops don’t exactly serve his effort to stand up to ‘the man.’ The man, of course, being his parents and this entire school and the government, all of whom conspired against him so he would end up in a secluded school with nothing to do and nowhere to go and no legal candles to be had. He wiggles his fingers over the flame, willing the warmth to transfer, to stay with him all night, to stay close to his heart as he sleeps in a frosty room of isolation.

That’s not to say he doesn’t love his single person room.

Don’t go getting any ideas now.

He adores being by himself.

He  _ does. _

Sometimes it’s just hard for him to believe his own lies, is all.

“Care to explain what you’re doing out here?” a voice asks from behind him. It’s overly decorated with impatience, clearly unimpressed by the ne’er do wells with which it has to deal. “Come on, kid.”

“Pleasure to see you, too, Ms. Klingt. I would’ve thought you would know my name by now, and I must admit, I’m a little disappointed that you didn’t use it.” Virgil snuffs out his candle, taking one last inhale of the autumn scent before tucking it back in his bag. “Names really give the punishment the punch, y’know?”

“Come on, kid.”

“You could work on your creativity, too. Sounds like you just recycle the same words you hear in low budget indie movies,” Virgil mutters, sulking behind the teacher as she leads him to the administration building. She curls her shoulders in tighter, rubbing at goosebumps on her arms. “You know, jackets exist. They’re a remarkable invention, actually, and they do wonders for keeping—”

“Not part of the uniform. Be quiet.” Ms. Klingt’s words are short, clipped, and carry the air of someone who’s been through strict reformatory school and come out as one of the only kids that fell for soul-crushing regiments. Regardless, she stops trying to force friction to counteract the weather’s effects on her skin.

Virgil scowls at the blinding lights of the admin building, so harsh against his eyes that have long since gotten used to the dark. The blinds blocking off the dean’s main office look almost like shackles in the fluorescent brightness, tangling up whoever is unfortunate enough to have to enter that room. Getting the idea in his head of the blinds flying off the windows to chain his wrists, to handcuff him to the school with no escape, Virgil stifles a laugh, ignoring the irritated huff from Ms Klingt.

“Dean Cedarbaum?” Ms. Klingt calls, knocking gently on the door before pushing it open. With half a mind to help her force the heavy door back, Virgil bounces on his toes—last time he tried to help, the dean got all pissy at him for daring to hassle the teacher. So instead of helping, he watches her huff and pant to get the door open further than four inches. “Got another problem for tonight.”

Virgil doesn’t bother what she means by ‘another’ problem—it’s a rare night that some kid isn’t trapped behind those binding blinds, their face battered and bruised or their fingers pockmarked with cigarette scuffs or their hair messed up for ‘reasons that kids like you are far too young to know the intricacies of.’ First off, Virgil is twenty years old, thank you very much, and ending on a dangling preposition is hardly a sign of a well educated dean, much less one that’s well fit to run a school. Dean Cedarbaum is neither of these things.

Dean Cedarbaum grimaces at Virgil as the student squeezes himself through the impossibly narrow crack between the door and its frame. All too familiar with the kid by now, the dean straightens his tie and fidgets with the knick knacks on his desk, making them perfectly straight as he waits for Ms. Klingt to go.

Virgil deposits himself in the squeaky plastic chair pressed against the blinds—the one with uneven legs, perfect for distracted wobbling as the boy in the other chair sinks lower in his own seat, his arms folded tight over his chest. Based on the discreet breakings of the uniform and dress code, the kid is probably that one that’s always petitioning for theatre classes, for a chance to breathe creativity into a stiff school built on the backs of soulless haters of joy and a useful existence.

The kid is very enthusiastic about his petitions.

He fiddles with the gold dragon crawling up his ear— _ ear crawlies, _ as Virgil so fondly refers to them—and uses his other hand to brush off an imaginary piece of dirt from his bright red brooch, just barely peeking out of the pocket of his shirt.

“Hey, you’re the kid that signed my petitions! Didn’t you say you were gonna—” Virgil shakes his head, preferring not to delve into the specifics of how he’d promised to get this kid fake signatures. Really, he’d expect more from someone so passionate, and at the very least, he would think them smart enough not to bring up something so illicit in front of the literal dean in charge of their school. Much to his chagrin, Virgil was mistaken.

“No fraternizing. You are not here to have fun. And yes, Roman,” the dean interrupts, raising a finger to stop the other kid before he can speak, “I did receive your latest petition, and the last three before it. No matter what your parents taught you, constant badgering will not get you higher on my list of priorities, so stop bothering.”

Roman pouts, somehow managing to sink even further down in his seat—how he doesn’t just collapse onto the floor in a miserable heap, Virgil does not know. He’s actually considering doing the same thing, were it not for the dean releasing a heavy sigh to promise a lecture that no one asked for.

“As per our student handbook, any student who appears to be in violation of statute five nine dash—”

“I wasn’t.” Roman sits up in his chair, straightening his back as if he were meeting a literal king or something. “All of the statutes in that book regarding noise complaints specify that if someone reports songs being played too loudly, it must involve some sort of electronic machine. There is nothing in that book that can make me liable to get in trouble for having been singing too loudly after quiet hours.” Directing his focus to the red pin, he lets off a demeanor to imply that the dean isn’t even worth his attention, and this retort he’s receiving is an honor to behold. “You are perfectly free to write me up on any manner of charges, but I’m sure my mother would be none too thrilled about coming down here and outlining the letter of the law for the underperforming dean of a prestigious institution.”

“Your mother is not—”

“Cheap? Yeah, no, I know, she’s absolutely loaded. Just won a major case a couple weeks back, actually, so if you would prefer keeping something so trivial as my desire to perform, shall we say, off the books, I’m sure she would be very appreciative and would continue making generous donations to your school.” Roman seems to grow taller with every word, inhaling air and exhaling legalese.

Dean Cedarbaum sighs, looking anywhere but at Roman. “I suppose you’re free to go. Now Virgil—”

“—Is coming with me,” Roman interrupts. “I’m sure his situation is on par with my own, and my mother would be happy to defend him, given him being my brother and all.” Before the dean can protest, and before Virgil can put on a legitimate poker face, Roman leaps from his chair and tugs Virgil into the hall, opening and slamming the door as if it weighed no more than a water bottle.

“So I’m your brother now?” Virgil asks in the hall, humor decorating the edges of his voice. Ridiculous though it may have sounded, it certainly got him off scot-free, and with nothing confiscated from his bag, no less. He keeps his voice low, just in case the dean has a mind to whip open the door and drag him back—for his dyed hair, for his candle misdemeanor, for simply existing too close, whatever it took, really. “Very creative. Long lost siblings are simply underdone in modern media, and you have my undying praise and adoration for such clever and quick thinking.” The sarcasm drips heavy on his tongue.

“Yeah, it was kind of on the spot,” Roman admits. He scratches at the nape of his neck as Virgil leads him toward the stairwell—he hasn’t ridden an elevator in years, and he isn’t about to start now. No thank you.

“Isn’t improv supposed to be, like, a major part of theatre?” Virgil jabs Roman with his elbow, sticking his tongue out and winking. “Or did you forget that, in all fifty of your petitions?”

“First off, I haven’t done fifty, so don’t go slandering my name with exaggerations. Second, yes, it is, which is why I don’t know how to do it well!  _ Someone _ has to teach it to me, or I’ll never learn!” Roman’s laugh echoes off the concrete stairs as they exit onto the sixth floor.

“Maybe you’re doomed to fail the class before you even start,” Virgil shoots back, kicking at the bottom of the door when his hands shake too much to fit the key in the lock.

“Maybe you’re doomed to fail the class before you even start,” Roman mimics, wrinkling his nose and flashing rabbit teeth. “Maybe I’ll add a caveat that anyone who’s signed the petitions has to participate.”

“Maybe I’ll run home and tell Mom that I know I’m adopted.”

“She’s not your mom!” Roman stomps his foot like a toddler, but Virgil is already past the closing door, cheerfully ignoring Roman in favor of the dark dorm room. Not thirty seconds later, a door slams down the hall—apparently Roman lives closer to Virgil than he’d expected.

Huh. That could be useful later.

Virgil huddles under his constellation blanket and settles in for a long night of sleeplessness. When the sun rises to brighten his still-damp hair, his eyes are still cracked open, and he is exhausted, and someone is pounding on his door. Not bothering to hide his groan, or even make himself look presentable, he drags his feet all the way to the banging and swallows a deep breath of frustration.

_ If that’s Roman, I am literally going to scream and punch the wall. _

It’s Roman.


End file.
